Excerpt from the forthcoming novel “Daddy”

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“Where in the hell do you think you’re going with my son? Jackson Young asked, hastily exiting the car that he had just slammed the brakes on to a screeching halt. He was seething with wrought anger, seeing his son with someone he despised like an attack of spring allergies.

With each of the extended spaced strides he took, the more intense his rage grew. “Harlem, you bring your ass over here right now, or I’ll drag your ass all the way back to that car! What the hell are you doing out at this ‘got-dayum’ graveyard anyway?! You were supposed to have taken your little ass home immediately after school!” He growled, stepping to Jensen with bottled agitation and fury.

Harlem instantly grew afraid about the looming confrontation about to take place. Uncertainty and fear swooped around his entire spirit like the circular winds of an n F5 twister. It was then that he realized just how much Jackson loved him, and the guilt he felt inside grabbed a hold of his senses and shook all the prior foolishness from the rafters of his self-centered thoughts. He had never seen his father’s eyes so convincingly raw and, one proverbial brick at a time, the wall he had built around his heart was being taken down.

What had he done?

In his tunneled focus to reach for Harlem’s arm, he missed the combative reactions of a cunning foe, and it was a costly error on his part. Without being given a second to avoid and respond, he felt the cold thud of the butt of a gun strike him across the side of his face with the force of a downward micro burst, and it sent him spiraling down to the ground. Jensen’s calculated and accurate move was one of his most personalized responses to adversity. Jackson slid out and quickly back into consciousness out of necessity, but by the time he regained composure, he caught a glimpse of his screaming son being thrown into the backseat of a black, sported out, Range Rover.

“Daddy…!” Harlem cried out.

“Harlem…!” Jackson yelled, as he staggered helplessly, trying to find that certain footing, but the blunt blow to the side of his face had affected his sense of direction.
“Keep your ass away from this little motherfucker, Jackson, or I’ll put your ass in the ground with that whore I took from you! I’m done playing middle-class papa with you!” Jensen yelled, ducking inside of the waiting vehicle.

“Harlem…!” he screamed frantically.

“Harlem…!” he desperately called out again.

By the time he regained his balance, it was too late. He watched the vehicle with his son inside; make a right at nearby inner-streets within the cemetery, and his heart sunk. What just happened? Was everything that Harlem said true? Was he weak and incapable of taking care of his own? He turned around in anger to view the final resting place of his deceased wife, and he did a double take when he saw the additional name and details of a child on the grave maker who was obviously buried with Natalie.